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Critical Mass of a Mortal Have you ever felt you’re just a symbol to the people that you love? The saintly or the sinful—daughter, lover, friend—enough! The clash of titans was to gods mere sibling rivalry. To my dearly disconnected loves I may be Fun, Cold, Business Opportunity, Female. Can we ever know another person? Does it matter if we can't or can? I find I can persist as lover to impersonal Man... It seems my matrix of emotions is off all maps but mine. Perhaps this furthers plans of the Uncanny and Divine? For others I'm Extension, variations on a theme: I've no option but to play myself in this jigsaw-puzzle dream. #Unreal #Poetry #JeanneJoePerrone #Painting #ElizabethGilliamHedgepath #Labels#Masks #Matrix #Persona Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Love At First Grade I was only on my first of twelve grades, so the time for slacking had yet to arrive. Some kids, however, found their shoelaces, the window or the floor more interesting than our addition problems. I couldn’t help but feel these kids had underestimated the importance of the ability to add single digit numbers. Granted, it seemed to be a somewhat abstract concept, one only adults needed to know. But our teachers reminded us we’d be adults soon enough.
1+3=4. 2+2=4. 3+6=_?____. Geez, our lessons were moving a little too quickly. It’s hard enough learning all the numbers that can add up to four. Dismay spread throughout our class when the teacher announced we’d be moving on to a new concept the next week--subtraction. I personally didn’t understand how we could be expected to learn a concept whose name we wouldn’t be required to spell for at least another two grades. Anyway, I shrugged off the news and returned to my problems. I was working on my last few problems when Brandon dropped a folded sheet of paper on my desk. “What’s this?” I whispered. “It’s a note from Jessie,” Brandon said. I looked across the room and blonde-hair blue-eyed Jessie was staring at me intently. An unfamiliar sensation ran along my spine; butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Brandon nodded suggestively, so I went ahead and unfolded the note. It read: Kyle, I love you. -Jessie The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
(Spill-O's Dubious Advice) A sneering truant from the wheel of life; Spill-O, in his recreational despair, skips family functions, hot showers and clean clothes, and then blames poetry. “We’re just haunting this world until we overturn our convictions,” he says, holding onto the wall. “The world, is a consequence, like the freestanding throat of a vanished volcano.” A book about the fifth dimension rests in his pudgy hands. “Once you submit to procreation, you can’t honestly argue with anything. You can’t get drunk as you need to be at a Marriot on an expense account.” Eyes bagged, mouth uneven, Spill-O doesn’t look so good. “No one will exile you. You have to exile yourself,” he slurs. Colin Dodds grew up in Massachusetts and completed his education in New York City. His poetry has appeared in more than a hundred fifty publications, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. The poet and songwriter David Berman (Silver Jews, Actual Air) said of Dodds’ work: “These are very good poems. For moments I could even feel the old feelings when I read them.” Dodds is also the author of several novels, including WINDFALL and The Last Bad Job, which the late Norman Mailer touted as showing “something that very few writers have; a species of inner talent that owes very little to other people.” And his screenplay, Refreshment, was named a semi-finalist in the 2010 American Zoetrope Contest. Colin lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife Samantha. You can find more of his work at thecolindodds.com. #Unreal #Poetry #ColinDodd #AdventuresOfSpillO #Existentialism #HotelBars #DrinkingByYourself #Drunk #Exile Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Way Back How do we live our lives? The Way Back Lights the secrets. Why we care-- Dark side Danger exists: Social Distortion Like percussionist kamikazes Lost in translation. Attention must be paid. #Poetry #Photography #NaomiYung #TylerRosado #Diction #Past #Secrets #Distortion #Imagery Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
'Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all.' This fall, the Homeless Children's Playtime Project, a nonprofit based in Washington, D.C., is holding an auction to support their programming. Capitol Hill Arts Workshop instructors (c'est moi!) were asked to make a piece of art for the event. I came up with a birdhouse sculpture using recycled materials: birdhouses, a shutter, old nail polish, crepe paper left over from someone's birthday party. It's a whimsical piece for a group dedicated to providing Washington's homeless kids with a safe place to play. The Playtime Project's fundraiser will take place on Oct. 8th at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace in Washington, D.C. Learn more about the event. #Unreal #Sculpture #Birdhouses #RecycledArt #FoundObjects #FoundArt #BirdArt #Whimsical #Quirky #Collage #Birds Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
In A Dream in a dream i stay with you. the sun, blinding and bright, wrinkles my eyes. my skin turns brown; it blends with my tangled, uncombed hair. i lay lazy; my heart slows.. air is taken in with ease while the ride rhythmically hits the shore. so often you are a treat, to be savored and remembered. the wonderful wind, blows over me. the salty sea heals wounds, cuts, and scrapes. gritty, scratchy, sand cradles my flesh; sweet and warm for scuffed winter feet. so often you are a treat, to be savored and remembered. i feel small and content laying here with you; feelings of no remorse in front of the endless sight. i am alone, without the burden of loneliness. may i stay with you? i'll never return to the cramped city, the congested city filled with hustle and scam; while ambitiously waiting for a train or a bus, waiting for the right place, the right time -- no, that isn't you. you see no point in hurrying the day. no fear for the future. i am pleasantly lost with you. i hope not to grow too old, and forget that day i slept with you. so often you are just a treat, to be savored and remembered. #Unreal #Poetry #Photography #NeelyJohnson #SafeLove #Memory #ScrubbedRaw Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Diamond's Blood Words: Charice Cejas Image: Deniz Zeynep See through frosted windows, Slash the gleaming glass! Shards of crystal fall to snow, Dye it red with diamond’s blood. Curse the damned illusions, Cast away your mask! Scattered specks of clarity, Dye them red with diamond’s blood. The walking corpse of chivalry Tips his tattered hat, Shreds to pieces your perfect dress, Dyes it red with diamond’s blood. #Unreal #Poetry #Photography #ChariceCejas #DenizZeynep #Illusions #Clarity #Unmasked #Imagery Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Daughter of The Moon By Ren Kolozak QuailBellMagazine.com It was the night before the full moon and Sora was tucked into a ball in her closet, whispering prayers against her knees. Low voices filtered through the thin walls, heated and hushed. She curled even further into herself.
“Sora?” Her sister’s voice was like the wind through reeds. “Sora? Are you in here?” Sora said nothing, just barely flinching when the door slid open, baring her to light. Warm hands rested on her shins as Mio edged closer. “What’s wrong, Nee-chan?” The voices outside burst with volume, her parents unable to keep their argument from little ears. While the words were muffled, Sora had heard them many times before. Mio sighed, sitting cross-legged in front of her and resting her doll-like face in her hands. “You’re worried about the full moon.” Her shoulders shook, fingers digging further into her calves. She nodded against the caps of her knees. “What if nothing happens?” Sora whispered. “You know what the legends say.” The legends had been little more than family history when Sora was a child, sitting on her father’s lap as he explained about the Tanin, those who were Other. There were the Amabie, the sea people whose scales reflected the water of their birth, and the Furi, whose tails enabled them to climb tall trees and eat the high-bearing fruit, and even the Inugami, who would follow their wards with wagging tails and panting mouths. Their family was of a different clan, the Kitsune, the impish foxes that gave good luck and misfortune alike. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Venus in a Tabernacle Venus in a tabernacle-- Body, bound by faith and shackle, Of choirs charging Her with hymns, To install nails into Her limbs. Upon encountering Her name, They saw a star they could not tame; Their love for Yahweh or Jesus, Could not dull the glow of Venus. To suppress their own desires, They threw her into hell’s fires. With all their measley mortal force, Could never produce any corpse. These null attempts to defile, Her image make Venus smile; Trembling behind each frail psalter, Her body becomes the altar. #Venus #Goddess #Beauty #Mythology #BodyPositive #SexPositive #Religion #SlutShaming Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
White Fox By Sarah Schwister QuailBellMagazine.com The moonlight dripped over the mountain like silver paint lining the icicles. Stretching shadows from crippled plants and outspoken rocks were only intensified by the bath of light. Prodding in the rich, harsh cold a white fox marked the slope for wafts of slumbering prey buried in the snow. Whipping its head against the wind, poignant as royalty, the fox trotted to a bush. Away from the open speckled black canvas, the fox huffed. Clockwork brought the brash steps of two men, one rushing ahead and halting repeatedly while the other moved deliberately while aching. Their pointed, elongated shadows reached against the snagging bush like devious puppets. A change of air rippled through the freezing ocean of night, and the fox dropped ears. A harsh moan rolled through the sky, and a flick of darkness gleamed in the dark backdrop. The pines in the valley of the mountains creaked and cracked in a rush of hot, dry wind. The hunters cried out, frozen in their snowy holes. Calls went back and forth, and the fox sneezed as ash and ember shimmered down from the heavens. Another faint roar prodded the men, their behavior sporadic, one high and one low. A shink of metal shivered the coarse fur of the fox as it skirted out of the bush and bound to a farther base of rocks. Free flakes of snow whirred in front of the fox from the beat of wings from behind, and a shot of red heat came across the corner of her vision. Digging paws into the crumpling snow, the fox whirled around. White haloed an ebony dragon, its head arching as the wings released it to the earth. The mountain trembled to the dragon’s great height, the tail arching around the temple of scales and magic. The older hunter bellowed to the charging younger, who ignored his calls. Raising a gray line against the moon, he bolted to the beast. Fire curled around the teeth of the dragon, his head high and tense. As he released a muffled fleenk brushed past the fox. The elder was hit by a fire stream when the arrow to the eye made the dragon’s shot awry. Jumping, the fox turned to find another person, black clad and hooded, behind the rock she was heading towards. A bow sighed down at the female hunter’s side as she leapt silently over the rock towards the ailing dragon. Wings high, it rose back to the sky, blind. Standing high, the archer’s hood fell back as the bow framed strong skyward. Another shot fired, and the cry ripped open the sky with a pillar of fire as the dragon crashed, waves of white pooling around the impact. Jogging to the corpse, the flesh burning off the dragon as the imbalance of chemicals started to take place; the un-hooded woman pulled out a sword and decapitated the dragon. Bone against snow, she went about her way, back to the enveloping darkness of the woods, her hair dancing in the wind. Howling of pain still held the mountain, as one hunter held the other. Cradling the one they did not listen to, he was punished by fate as the world spun and melted around him. Watching the pair for only a moment longer, the fox turned and departed the mountain, continuing its own matters. #Unreal #FlashFiction #ShortStory #CreativeWriting #WhiteFox #Hunters #HuntingTheHunted #TheHunted #Forest Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. |